Tehran Decree (2 page)

She knew under the depraved behavior patterns he was
a good man at heart, who had been knocked from pillar to post,
smitten with bad habits he couldn’t control and chewed to pieces by
a politically correct system gone mad.

She looked up at him one final time in a prolonged,
wistful gaze, and held his cold hand between hers, trying
desperately to warm it up -- just a little.

‘Why Clement...why?’

Chapter One

TWO YEARS EARLIER

Lexton, South Australia

Few people would want to be stranded four hundred
kilometers from civilisation in the South Australian outback, but
the site had been well chosen. The distance was just enough to be
isolated and out of sight of an over quizzical public, but still
amenable to transport services from the big city. In this sense
Lexton Detention Centre was both remote and yet still accessible.
The area was dry, sandy-brown dessert, with random dabs of dark
green salt bush stretching as far as the eye could see. A merciless
sun poured its energy unremittingly over the barren landscape.

It was impossible, as well as highly undesirable, to
focus on the penetrating harshness of the solar disc, but the
celestial body made up for her insensitivity. At the end of the day
as the incandescent disk touched the earth’s horizon, a shimmering
display of light and shade erupted. It wavered through intense
yellow to glorious gold. Majestically, the gold coalesced to a deep
blood red, the display held for perhaps four to five minutes, then
dramatically plunged into the earth creating total blackness. Some
of the local aboriginals looked upon it as the quenching of the hot
sun by the coldness of the South Australian night.

Port Augusta residents described the sunsets as
absolutely stunning; like being on the barren moon of a strange
planet and watching the sun being eclipsed by the curvature of the
moon.

Habib Sharazi had spent the last three years in South
Australia, but had never seen any of this. In fact most of the
detainees at Lexton detention camp had never seen a South
Australian sunset. They were always moved around the camp in closed
vehicles and the windows of the compound were all built inwards to
prevent contact with the outside.

Most family compounds consisted of round sheet metal,
demountable buildings, without windows, reminiscent of circular
stone age huts. Adding to the unsavory properties of the
environment was an eight metre razor wire fence surrounding the
entire compound. Any observer outside the camp would have been
perplexed by this, as there were never any detainees to be seen.
Inmates were kept locked up all day and deprived of most normal
facilities.

It was a bright morning during roll call when Habib
Sharazi saw his first chance to escape the ugliness of Lexton.
Nothing could be as inhibiting and soul destroying as metal back to
back buildings which cut out all semblance of Australiana. The
great southern country had much more to offer and being in the
dessert without food or water was no deterrent. At least he could
die having experienced a modicum of the earthiness and freedom that
was the Australian outback...it was worth the risk.

The genesis of a new day infused him with the power
to be free whatever the cost. A sudden rush at the razor wire
fence, throwing all caution to the winds, actually seemed a
rational thing to do at the start of a brand new day. Such rashness
was the prerogative of the younger man and it was a natural desire
of the human psyche, but it had to be controlled or it could perish
in blood, pain, and tears, at the hands of brutal security
guards.

He had been through the early morning monitoring many
times and had noted what he thought was a possible flaw in the
accounting procedure. It was a stand by your beds routine, while
the security guard counted and checked off names on a clip board
list. Such routines inevitably became boring to both the guard and
inmate, but the most interesting thing about the procedure was that
it was conducted by one man; such was their confidence in the
deterrent effect of isolation and the razor wire fence.

Positioned at the end of the inmate lineup he could
just see a portion of the Australian guards head and sleeve with
the large initials ACM stitched across it. He was animatedly trying
to communicate with a new Arab inmate without much success.

Sharazi knew that ACM meant Australasian Correctional
Management and it was part of a partnership called Australasian
Correctional Services (ACS), half of which was owned by the giant
Australian firm of Hessan, with the other half controlled by a
private American security company, run by an American
multimillionaire.

They were hand in glove with the US and Australian
governments. Living and making money out of the misfortunes of
displaced illegal immigrants. It seemed somehow immoral even when
confronted with the excesses of militant Islam. He had often
wondered how he could ever live as a free Muslim surrounded by the
companies of such mighty Western infidels.

The ACM guard was further distracted by the Arab’s
wife who pulled determinedly at his sleeve while shouting at him in
Arabic and pointing to the check board listing.

Sharazi took his chance slipping quietly behind the
row of inmates and out through the half closed door. It was yet
another contemptuous assumption through familiarity, that the guard
had not bothered to lock the door. Sharazi deftly eased himself out
of the door and sprinted across the open ground. It was his first
good view of the Australian outback, but it was demarcated by a
barrier of light and steel, which ran off into the distance,
curving round into a great circle totally enclosing his small
world. It was a taste of freedom -- but it is was only a sip from a
poisoned vessel.

He searched in vain for a weak point in the barbed
fence line. The light glinting off the razor wire partially
blinding him as he ran, skirting the metal thorn encrusted spirals
--
then a gap of intense light emanated from one side of the
fence
--
was it a way out? Had Allah given him a signal?

A flurry of raised voices echoed behind him driving
him on. He plunged blindly forward, his mouth dry with exertion
from the hot dessert air. The loss of precious bodily fluids
increased as he began heaving and sweating, with every muscle
aching
--
there had to be a way through the infernal steel
barrier.

He spurred himself on even harder, even though his
body began to rebel -- his muscles were twinging and full of pain
-- threatening to seize up.

The halo of light grew more intense and he surged
towards it -- like a moth diving towards an open flame. It had to
be a break in the fence wire. Allah was goading him on to freedom.
Then something strange happened, as if he had broken through the
barrier, all the pain abruptly disappeared and his body felt like
it were floating on a cloud. Fine detail disappeared even with both
eyes wide open, sweat stung his eye sockets, and his receptors
could only register blurred shapes.

The blinding light totally enveloped him and he
stopped abruptly, as if constrained by an invisible hand. A
paralysing force abruptly gripped his torso and a burning sensation
stabbed at his neck and face.

His body swung freely as if suspended in a heavenly
hammock -- it was then he noticed his body was being constrained by
bloodied metal barbs.

The pain rudely returned biting into his brain, he
could not open his eyes, then he cried out, as spattering red
liquid ran down his face and pooled in his lap. The guards dragged
him from the wire
--
a crumpled heap of deep gashes and
bloody streaks
--
a paramedic quickly entered the scene and
set about patching the gaping wounds in his arms and face.

‘How bad is he?’stutted an out of breath senior
security officer.

‘I’m sorry sir, but he’ll need immediate surgery,’
one of the security officers peered warily at the razor wire...each
barb was a means of cutting one’s wrist or throat, and there were
thousands of them all around the camp perimeter. He lowered his
head in a futile attempt to hide a shameful grimace.

‘What the fucking hell are we doing to these retched
people?’ the chief officer blurted out in a flurry of emotion; the
paramedic responded, gazing alarmingly at the razor wire,

‘I don’t know about that sir, but I do know one thing
-- we haven’t thought this through. These people are very familiar
with pain and suffering, so a few rolls of razor wire isn’t going
to bother them too much.’

‘You’re probably right there, in fact, the razor
fence might be just the place to martyr themselves on...after all,
Jesus Christ only had a wooden cross and a few rusty nails, and
look at the attention he got!’

Chapter Two

White House Washington

President George Frederick Garner had just entered
the Oval office for another days hard paper work, which had been
piling up after a series of meetings on the worsening war in Iraq.
The morning briefing sheet from the director of the CIA lay
precisely in middle of his desk as requested by the president. The
report was one of the first documents he read on entering the
office, as well as a number of other related issues on Iraq, Iran
and Afghanistan, and now Pakistan had just joined the list. Such
was their importance that they were taking up an increasing amount
of his formal work time as well as his informal activities. The US
now had three hotbed areas to choose from, plus a possible forth,
as well as ever increasing problems on the home front.

The prestige and power of the presidential office had
steadily diminished with time, and he could see the day when no one
would accept this once highly coveted job, supposedly occupied by
the most powerful man in the world -- it was all a lot of
hogwash.

He read the briefing quickly, as was his normal
habit, then reread the document concentrating on the more important
aspects.

An undisclosed British warship had detected several
Iranian missile firings in the last four days, whilst these were
not unusual, their range and frequency had increased substantially,
which was a new and alarming development.

The firings and range increases had been partially
confirmed by the American carrier USS Ronald Reagan located in the
Arabian Sea just off the coast of Oman.

A compounding factor in this issue had been worrying
the president
--
due to the increasing militarism and
incursions of Iranian paramilitary groups in northern Iraq the US
government had increased the troop dispositions in this area to
over four thousand. The question was; were the increased Iranian
missile firings in response to US troop movements?

Garner booted his laptop and assessed the most recent
documentation on Iranian weapons of mass destruction. The CIA
document estimated a five to ten year development before Iran could
produce a nuclear bomb of its own. Garner knew that this was a best
guesstimate based on various reports, false or otherwise, and that
it could not be relied upon. No one in the world knew exactly when
Iran would become nuclear capable except Iran, and even they
couldn’t put a lid on it.

The irony of it all was that Iran could be capable of
delivering a nuclear bomb right now and with the ability to wipe
out Washington and the White House. If this were correct, the USA
was in grave danger, not to mention other supportive states such as
Israel and Saudi Arabia.

He peered out of the window at the manicured lawns
and well tended shrubbery of the White House gardens, something he
often did in order to calm his nerves. The view seemed to be one of
the few permanent images he had got used to during his political
life on capital hill.

Nature knew how to project a calm image, but even
this was becoming a little jaded, middle east politics had become a
dangerous tit for tat scenario with a first in winner takes all end
game.

An overwhelming passion forced him to concentrate on
the ultimate scenario
--
stifle the bloody problem with a
massive invasion of men and state of the art military equipment, or
better still, nuke the fucking place to hell with a hundred nuclear
warheads on all the major cities. A radioactive wasteland seemed
preferable to a seething Arab state, riddled with hatred, and
nuclear weapons pointed at the heart of the United States.

He smiled sardonically at his muse, it was the same
old story, smite your enemies before they smite you
--
but
then there was another ancient story of David and Goliath
--
with Iran playing the role of David.

Whatever the outcome there could only be one looser
and one winner, but there was a third outcome niggling away at the
back of his mind, there could be two losers, with sufficient well
placed nuclear weapons they had the capacity to virtually wipe each
other out. Truth was there would be no clear winner whatever
scenario was played out. He stared for a few moments at the shifty
logistics on the computer screen, keying up and down the lines of
digits, it was clear, more accurate intelligence was required

He scrolled down the page looking at the missile
capabilities of Iran, the information had a similar veracity to the
nuclear bomb threat, except that it might be a little more
accurate.

It was known that the development of the inter
continental Shahab-6 missile system was well on track and its
estimated range was a minimum 10,000 kilometers. Such a weapon
could reach New York thus annihilating America’s most prestigious
city in one stroke. It was also known that Iran had had extensive
practical and theoretical assistance from North Korea, China, and
Russia, on all aspects of missile development.

Once again, after applying severe logic, it was a
case of go in now and administer the coup d’état, or face up to a
long drawn out cold war with a possible nuclear holocaust as the
outcome.